


in my tortured ears (there sounds a nightmare)

by coffeebucko



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Blood Loss, Delirium, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attack, Shaky Hands, whumptober2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-22 11:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20873261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeebucko/pseuds/coffeebucko
Summary: He stares in horror at his hands, forgets about the kitchen tiles and the ruined toasts and the fresh coffee, forgets about Sam’s hand on his shoulder.





	1. sambucky — shaky hands

“Buck.”

Sam’s voice is far away. It makes no sense, Sam is right beside him, he can see the tiles of the kitchen floor through the cracks of his fingers, can smell the burnt bread in the toaster, hear the old percolator running loudly in the background, he should know he’s home, should recognize this place, the feeling of safety it brings him, like a nest, a fortress, but he doesn’t. There’s crimson on his hands and screams in his head, like a vinyl that plays in an endless loop, screams of strangers, people he’s killed in their homes, children he’s slaughtered — “Leave no witnesses,” an order that guided countless blades across fragile throats —, screams of people he knew, friends, pleas for him to stop, please, Barnes, don’t do this,  _ Barnes _ —

“Bucky.”

It’s unfair, that he’s here, and they’re not, that he gets a life like this, domesticity, a lover, friends and family, that he gets to live on while they don’t. He stares in horror at his hands, forgets about the kitchen tiles and the ruined toasts and the fresh coffee, forgets about Sam’s hand on his shoulder. The blood that drips from his fingertips has a name, it carries the weight of every man and woman he ever stole an entire life from, a life he’s now living in their place, imposter that he is, a murderer in disguise, only waiting for the right words to be pronounced to extend his list of victims, to thicken the blood on his hands. 

“Bucky, look at me.”

He does, it takes all his might to lift his chin from his chest and meet Sam’s eye. He expects pity, always does. He expects hatred, disgust, venom, what he deserves, but in Sam’s eyes twinkles a kind light, compassionate, warm, a presence, a shoulder rather than a gavel, a prison, an excuse. It’s a second breath forced into his lungs, it’s a guiding sun in the midst of his delirium, and he gasps, inhales sharply, tries to trap this warmth in the core of his chest, sitting next to his throbbing heart. Sam reaches out, slowly, reaches out like Bucky’s nothing but a wounded animal, and he might be, it doesn’t matter when their fingers intertwine and Sam brings their hands to his face, presses his lips to each red knuckle, hums and holds his gaze, never faltering, never stepping away. Unafraid, as though Bucky couldn’t kill him with a snap, and Bucky wouldn’t, he would rather die, but there’s the underlying threat of a relapse that the other chooses to ignore. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers, and it’s only when he starts cleaning his palms with a towel that he realizes how badly he’s shaking, either from the cold or from the memories assaulting the damaged walls of his mind, he couldn’t tell if he tried. “We can get another jar tomorrow.”

The burnt toasts. The coffee. Towel covered in marmalade. There’s no blood, here, not in this place, not in this home, with Sam. It’s all in his head and in his chest, a blossoming pain that comes and goes like a wound that never healed correctly. No blood, only the warmth of the sun through the blinds and the soft press of Sam’s lips on his cheek as he grabs the remaining glass shards from his grasp. 

Bucky nods. His hands still shake as they settle on the couch, almost spilling coffee everywhere, yet Sam’s there by his side and, for a moment, he’s happy to forget.


	2. stucky — delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood loss was making Steve delirious. Half-sitting in a pool of red, hand feebly clutching at the sleeve of Bucky’s uniform, limp body tensing in an attempt to lean closer to him, and Bucky sniffled, shook his head, put more pressure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i am aware that i skipped day 2 and also day 3 is late but my break is coming soon and i'll have an entire week to catch up so !!! stay tuned ig

He should have been faster. He should have been _faster_.

The bullet had gone straight through. In and out of his thigh, a clean shot. Blood soaking the cloth, seeping through his fingers, Bucky whimpered as if it were him bleeding out in the snow. The pain was all the same, and he put more pressure on the wound.

He’d seen it happen, from his perch higher up in the thick forest. Steve, fighting off half a dozen Nazis, moving with the grace and elegance of a man who’d done this his whole life, even though he’d been on the receiving end of the punches for most of it. Bucky had shot one, then two, had tried to get a clear shot of a third one, but Steve’s head had gotten in the way. A gunshot, one that wasn’t from him, and, a few seconds later, two bodies collapsing, and the yell that had ripped from Bucky’s throat could have alerted every nearby base for all he cared.

“Oranges,” Steve muttered, eyelids fluttering as he turned his head to the side, but it lolled heavily and fell back against the tree trunk. “Gotta buy some… You love ‘em.”

Bucky huffed in effort, blinked through tears. The bleeding wouldn’t stop. It would only take a few minutes for Steve’s body to go dry, yet, with the serum, there was no way for him to be sure. All he could do was push his palms harder against the bullet hole and keep the panic he could feel creeping up his spine at bay. 

It was everything he’d ever dreaded, Steve dying in his arms, for a long time. Ever since the thirties, when he’d run through the streets of Brooklyn and glance at every dark alley until he’d find the blonde leaning against a brick wall with a bloody nose and a bruised eye, or when he’d hold him close during an asthma attack or a cold or a nightmare. He’d hoped, fuck, he’d hoped the war would keep Steve away, but there he was and there was Bucky, too, too small and too weak now to protect Captain America from everything and everyone that tried to annihilate him. He couldn’t keep his best friend safe and it hurt. They way Steve looked up at him, too, with the hint of a smile and unfocused eyes, as if he wasn’t really seeing him at all, felt like a slap in the face and a punch to the guts all at once. 

Everything but that. He’d rather be on that damned table again.

“Yeah,” he puffed out in response. His hands slipped on Steve’s thigh, he lost his footing and groaned in both annoyance and despair. God, there was so much blood. Why wasn’t the flow slowing? “Yeah, we’ll get oranges. We’ll get whatever you want, just— just hold on.”

“ ‘m cold.” Steve’s voice was barely any louder than a whisper. “Thought you’d fixed the window.”

That was years ago. Years ago when they’d been huddling for warmth in the scrawny looking apartment they called home, freezing wind blowing in through the cracked window with a whistle. Steve’s face buried in his chest, scolding him, you said you’d fix it, and Bucky nodding, promising to do it tomorrow, pulling him even closer even when his ribs protested. 

Blood loss was making Steve delirious. Half-sitting in a pool of red, hand feebly clutching at the sleeve of Bucky’s uniform, limp body tensing in an attempt to lean closer to him, and Bucky sniffled, shook his head, put more pressure. 

“When the window… when it’ll be fixed, we’re gonna get oranges,” Steve babbled, eyes rolling to the back of his skull as his head lolled from left to right. “Could make candies. Could— Could cuddle on the floor.” He gasped softly when Bucky shifted his grip on his inner thigh. “Miss you, Buck.”

He couldn’t help a sob at that. He bit back a “_shut up, Rogers_,” and glanced at the wound once more only to sigh in relief when he noticed the blood had stopped spreading. He blindly reached for the bandages he kept in his bags with one hand, the other still applying pressure, just in case. Steve’s mouth wouldn’t stay closed for a second, he kept on rambling about how tired he was and how there were still leftovers for them to eat once they’d get home tonight, and Bucky gritted his teeth through it all until the bandages were safely tied and footsteps, along with familiar voices, could be heard in the distance. 

He cupped Steve’s cheek in one bloody palm and pushed their foreheads together, breathing shakily.

“We’ll be home soon, love. Just hold on.”


End file.
